Inferno
by insignificantramblings
Summary: She had lit him on fire like Dante's Inferno.


**Sometimes I sit at work and blindly write stories, rather than go cross-eyed staring at Excel. **

**Random drabble! Characterization is weird; I can **_**never**_** imagine Enjolras doing this…but here it is. **

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**Inferno **

According to Dante, the final circle of Hell is reserved for the worst of the sinners: the traitors. The three mouths of Satan chew on history's worst: Brutus, Cassius and Judas. They are condemned to spend eternity paying for their transgressions against their friends. The deaths of Julius Caesar and Jesus Christ will forever be atoned for, deep within the fiery pit of Hell.

Enjolras wondered if the same fate awaited him. Abandoning his friends had never been part of his plan. But then again, neither had she.

The barricade had been his idea. The months of planning had been left to him. The location of the rebellion had been chosen by him. In the back of his mind, he knew it was all a death sentence. He knew they wouldn't make it. He was prepared for death; ready for it.

And then, she had come along.

She, with the quiet strength. She, with the annoying habit of biting her fingernails, to dispel the anxiety she always carried. She would have come off as a nobody, as just a beggar, as no one important. And yet…

She had lit him on fire like Dante's Inferno.

In those first quiet days when General Lamarque had fallen ill, he felt the beginnings of the spark that would rip his soul apart. She had spoken one word: an answer to a rhetorical question he had posed to himself one night. He had assumed he was alone; all the other men had gone home. He was poring over maps, trying to find an answer. In frustration, he had cried, "Is this going to succeed?"

An immediate answer of "no" echoed through the Musain, and Enjolras spun around to see a girl. She was the one they called "Marius's shadow" and in that moment he could see the literal sense of why. She was practically emerging from the darkness, as if she were part of it.

They locked eyes, and that was how the fire began.

He would go on to see her every day following that first encounter, the flames growing in his chest until he felt he could burst from it all. She never spoke much, just carried herself with quiet confidence. She would accept help from on one, not even food on days she hadn't eaten. He never questioned her; to do so would ignite the fire in her eyes, and add to the flames in his own chest. The hushed words they spoke every night made him feel more alive than ever. Her stories of the streets endeared him more than he would ever admit. She, in turn, hung on his every harsh word, making him feel immortal, exalted.

Despite this, he had a commitment to honor. If he had any hopes of being successful with his barricade, he had to focus on the task at hand. He couldn't afford to be distracted, even by the one person that had ignited his very soul.

He tried one miserable week without her, feeling the flames in his chest dull to embers, and a cold ache settle in their place. He saw the questioning look in her eyes, saw the hurt, even though she tried to cover it with blank stares. He would abruptly leave the café each night, avoiding her like a coward. She would never question him, but both would go to bed with bitter tastes in their mouths.

It was not until one afternoon that he snapped. He was fed up – done – with avoiding her. His heart was heavy, and he was desperate for the warmth she brought him.

He stood from his chair to tell her, and that was when everything changed.

"General Lamarque is dead."

Dread settled in his chest, crushing him with its weight. He glanced around at his friends – the ones that had agreed to follow him. He swallowed the lump in his throat the thought of these men – boys, really – following him from the barricade to an early grave.

It was then that he caught her eye. She was looking at him, her eyes ablaze with emotion. Heat ripped through the heavy dread plaguing his body as he looked at her, and the rest of the room disappeared. Reality, however, soon crashed back in.

They stormed General Lamarque's funeral as planned, their red flags waving and their hearts singing. He felt renewed, refreshed, and ready for whatever was to come. The barricade went up, the furniture barely protecting his group of friends. They still seemed merry – exhilarated by it all. He thought he must be the only one that had a full grasp of the situation, the only one who knew they were already beat.

When he locked eyes with her again, however, he knew that she understood.

As his friends began to fall, the full weight fell on him again. He knew that this barricade would be his last stand, his last breath, and his last everything.

She knew it too, for when Marius fell, she stretched out her hand to the scarlet-clad leader. She pulled him off the barricade and down a side street, not uttering a word. He blindly followed, allowing the distant, pained cries of his friends to disappear, the pops of gunfire fading into oblivion.

This time, she asked the single question.

"Do you want to die here?"

And this time, he uttered the single word.

"No."

In the years to come, he wondered what sort of fate awaited him in the afterlife. The brave, like his friends, go to heaven. They are exalted for their sacrifices, and hailed as martyrs.

The traitors, as Dante said, go to Hell. They are condemned to pay for their transgressions for eternity.

He followed her away from his trajectory to paradise, to the beginning of his descent to Hell. In the end, she had been worth it: with her presence, his body was ablaze.

The fires of Hell would always be waiting, but for the time being, he had the Inferno on Earth.

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**Dante's Inferno is a great read if any of you haven't checked it out! I read it a few years ago for the first time in college and have read it several times since…very cool stuff! Hope this wasn't too awful – I'll be returning to my full length e/e modern story tomorrow! xoxo Brittany**


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